


Prayer

by calystegiia



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Genre: Descriptions of religion/church idk i havent been in a while, Gen, Mentions of Death, again this is very vent based work, it is also very tc22 based Heat O'Brien, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21883330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calystegiia/pseuds/calystegiia
Summary: Never too late, there would always be a God to listen to the first prayer of a broken man.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> hello i am venting! this is a very vent based piece of work and also mentions of religion and stuff come from my own conception bc idk its been years since ive been! yeehaw. anyway, Heath is like a hc my friend has as Heat O'Brien's actual name and fuck it bro I vibe. anyway. no beta. we die like men. yahoo

They say the first in a graveyard should be a dog. A guide for those recently deceased to find their way into the next world, into their afterlife. Someone who’s designated purpose was to guide the lost. He wonders if she will have one. He pictures it as they stand, small, with large black eyes and a rolling pink tongue. It would be similar to the one they wanted as children. Heat hopes it guides her. 

Her coffin is very small, a deep cherry wood color adorned with a flower bouquet on top. The sun is hidden behind heavy black clouds, and the world is quiet. Not even a breeze dare interrupt the mourning as it’s lowered into a six-foot grave. It weeps for her as well, the clouds break with their tears, leaving Heat shivering as they are pelted with the gelid rain. He dares not to say anything.

O’Brien stands with his fingers laced with his mother’s. Pressed into her side, he buries his face into her thick black coat. Mirroring the days he could not find himself able to stare in the fish like eyes of his sibling, he again hides from her. His mother’s grip is shaking, and tight. Fingers curl and uncurl over and over as the dirt thumps rhythmically on the coffin. Beside him, his father stands next to him. Pale in the face, he keeps his hands stuffed in the pockets of black slacks that match Heat’s. They are also shaking. 

Her name then becomes a curse word. That using it would deliver the same flinching, jolting, rejected response that another offensive word would result in. Heat learns the hard way, a lashing from his parent never received before until he said her name with the causality of any other word. The stinging of his face teaches him that it is now unspoken, unmentioned, and banned. Not even when they visit her grave is it okay, though the wind seems to carry it gently. The wind whispers a thanks for the dull flowers that matched the rotted bouquet she was buried with. They cannot stay there long, neither mother nor son are able to stay with the choking sense of guilt and failure.

He asks his mother one night if she had found her way yet. The guilt born from a folktale of a dog to guide them keeps him awake at night, tormented by the idealization that she will never be at rest. A question asked before the light was turned off and while the covers were pulled to his chin. Her face molts into sorrow, a thousand words for sadness could not describe that of what her pain was. But she answers him anyway. 

“Of course, Heath.” Her voice shakes, and she refuses to make eye contact. She looks at the poster above his bed, then at the door frame, but not her son. “Get some sleep. Goodnight.” 

With that, she shuts off the light and closes the door. Despite her answer, they both know they are unsure. 

The notion of God, of religion and understanding of an otherworldly being or environment, was far fetched. There were no Sunday mornings designated to sitting in uncomfortable wooden pews listening to stories that he would be unable to comprehend. There were no mentions of the Bible, no psalms or shorts that were shared as a lesson. There was no God, though even the godless will end up worshiping something. 

The place of worship scares him. Feeling smaller than ever, Heat stares up at the cross that peaks from the roof, his heart pounds as he steps in. The building outside of the building is just as glad as the inside. Vaulted ceilings with dust visible in the air made him sneeze. He continues nevertheless, walking on scratchy carpet that muffled the sounds of his boots with each step. There are colored puddles along the floor, in washes of blues and reds that pour from large stained glass. There is a story behind each that he does not know. Long wooden pews are faced toward the stage, another carpeted area with an even larger stained glass work. 

Before him was a man, his hair is long, his arms are outstretched to the people. Covered in a white robe, his eyes are soft and his smile is warm. Cherubs with fat rosy cheeks surround him, they smile. The people below him have fallen to their feet. They are hunched in prayer. O’Brien copies them.. Kneeling onto the carpet he clasps his hands together as so depicted. 

“Dear God,” an overdue prayer is never too late, he begins, his hands shake. “Dear God, my name is Heath O’Brien. I have never been one for religion—“ 

Confessing to every sin that had been closed away inside him, he spills his guts. There were the promises that had been broken that resulted in death and promises that had been broken and killed trust. Everything and anything in between was said between gasps for breath as he fought back the lump in his throat. 

“I know about the tale of the guardian who takes you to heaven. Did my sister have one? Did she have a little dog to guide her, one she would dream about but couldn’t have? Someone, to keep her company? She must be awfully lonely.”

He finishes his prayer, shaking, but feeling lighter than before. That night he goes home, dropping his keys off in the bowl on the table beside the door. The lights are off in the kitchen and a note is held by a kitten magnet. His mother is at work, there’s money for takeout. 

Alone in his bed, Heat sits with his legs crossed and a pizza box balancing on his leg. In the background, the TV drones. He disregards its noise, chewing slowly as he tries to untangle the web of thoughts that are in his mind still. She still isn’t home when he goes to sleep. 

He lays with his covers pulled to his chin, staring at the ceiling of his room. There are glow-in-the-dark stars faintly glowing, illuminating the room lightly with a shade of green. There in darkness he wonders if there will be one to take him as well.


End file.
